


A Love and a Life Once Known, Now Forgotten

by Thranduelflings



Category: Fable (Video Games)
Genre: I'm Sorry, Mortal!Reaver, Reaver - Freeform, Sad!Reaver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:34:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduelflings/pseuds/Thranduelflings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaver reflects on the life, the love, and the name that he once knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love and a Life Once Known, Now Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this story makes you as sad as it made me.

Reaver sat by the fire in a cloak that matched the white of the winters snow and under it he donned a vest of the black of the night sky. His hat was gone, as was his bow, and his gun and his cane laid on the table next to him. He glanced at the adoringly, as if eyeing old and good friends.

Next to his gun sat an old journal, tattered, time worn, and the pages dripped with drops of a thousand glasses of red wine from the nights when he indulged in reading it. They meant much to him, those pages. They knew his darkest secrets, his deepest thoughts and his utmost desires. It was a part of him, and it was a part of him that should be kept secret no matter what happened.

There was, of course, places in the journal he dare not enter. They were dark and evil and he feared that they would rekindle fragments of his past so horrifying that they would taunt him in sleep and haunt him during his waking hours.

He missed being the young man who wrote in journals. Talking of places far off and magnificent, and of fondly writing of visiting them. He missed who he was, yet his loss was hidden behind a white mask of ardour and greed. He was fresh faced, kind... Mortal. He was young, and foolish, too. Very foolish.

He let out a sigh, bowing his head, then reached over to behind the journal where a half empty bottle of wine lay. He placed the cork between his teeth, pulling it off and took a swill of the wine, the buzz washing over his tongue, down his throat, and finally warming his belly.

There was a washing wind outside of his cold, empty forsaken mansion, and he heard a voice call his name. " _Anders,"_  it said, it was a soft voice, a kind one, and his heart sank at the name. It couldn't have been her... 

"Angelique?" He called into the blankness, the fire crackled, and the voice was heard again.

_"Anders... Or is it Reaver now?_ _I know what you've been doing... Did you really, truly think that you could just try and forget? All those_ people. _._. 

Their screams. Your - your own family!"

"Angelique, my love... I- I'm sorry..."

A woman had appeared then and Reaver's mouth gaped a small gasp escaping parted lips. She donned white, from the flowers in her hair to the falling silk of her dress, it was all white. Was it really her? Had the wine made him sleep and had his head just began to play a devious trick? He could be asleep, for all he knew. Or drunk. 

"Y- you're a dream," he called, standing, and picking up his gun, placing it between sure fingers and a firm palm.

She reached out then with a powdery white hand and placed it to his cheek, it was soft to the touch, and his arm fell, the gun falling to the floor. "Ande--"

"Reaver," he said, bitterly. It hurt him to be called Anders. He never in his immortal life thought he would hear it again, oh, how he was wrong.

"No," her voice was freer falling and just as lavishly silk as her dress. She caressed his cheek, a hateful tear falling from his hazel eye. She faced him then, the man she once loved. His hair was a lighter brown; his eyes keener and full of hope; his face unscarred and bright, emitting such an energy... It was Reaver, the way he once was.

"Angelique..." His voice but a whisper laced with fright and wonder as he stood before the white woman.

There was something else then, his mansion was surrounded by auburn flame and shadow of the purest black seeped in through every crevasse, threatening to take him. There was a shaking, and he awoke in his chair, the fire had died out. One his lap lay the journal that he had clutched to his fitful and restless sleep. Across the cover lay the wine that had fallen from his mouth and at the window there was the clattering of branches, followed by a faint whisper. "Anders," it said, "Reaver," it said again. "I will see you when the time comes, or when you allow yourself."

He discarded the bottle onto the floor and watched as the last drop of the red liquid flowed out and landed briskly onto a shag rug. He stayed in his seat and sighed, remaining in thought until the sun rose orange and the rays glistened, persistently making their way into his mansion. Reaver stood and ascended stairs of dark oak that clambered beneath his feet. He made his way to his bedroom and laid upon the soft down sheets, hoping to dream of her again.


End file.
